Zombie Navidad
by Night Monkey
Summary: Victor Zsasz has some unconventional and bloody interpretations of what, exactly, the reason for the season means.


Hello again, lovely people! And welcome to another yearly Christmas fic by Night Monkey.

Warning: As far as Christmas stories go, this isn't going to be one of the happier ones. No Hallmark Channel originals here, people. If you prefer that, may I point you to any of my other Christmas fics.

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><p>For a homeless, hairless creature that survived on what he could steal from Dumpsters and the dead, Victor Zsasz had a balmy view of winter. It was a season where nobody took note of long sleeves, and coats provided far more coverage and storage space than T-shirts. Zsasz's typical prey, the dregs of society, were at their weakest, slowed by the cold and the alcohol they used to trick their bodies into believing they weren't freezing. Even those with houses and apartments were distracted, at least until the holidays passed and some semblance of reality was restored, making sneaking up on them as they fumbled with their car keys and packages so easy it was almost not worthy of the mark.<p>

Almost.

It was one of these heads-in-outer-space types that Zsasz discovered on Christmas Eve. As nearly everything was closed except a few dedicated Chinese restaurants and open-til-Armageddon convenience stores, there were only a limited number of places it made sense for Zsasz to lurk. He'd picked a convenience store, if only because, unlike the Chinese restaurants, he could freely enter, thaw his toes, and leave without drawing attention.

Zsasz was loitering just outside the light cast through the plate glass windows of the convenience store when a departing customer caught his eye. The man was burdened with two bulging plastic bags, and judging by the way he was muttering to himself, he wasn't happy about his load. An angry, distracted man weighed down with twenty pounds of groceries couldn't have screamed, "Please, Zsasz, come and put me out of my misery" any louder if he threw himself at the butcher's feet.

Unable to resist the call, Zsasz crept after the man. He produced a knife from inside his voluminous coat, and prepared for the strike. He was nearly within attack range when the man's mutterings became clear.

"And nobody could bother to tell me Jessica's a freaking veggie now! We planned this for a month! How does that little detail not come up?!"

A veggie? Was that like a zombie? Zsasz thought about it for a moment. No, it probably meant vegetarian.

Though that was an interesting development. And not just because Jessica had chosen to ignore her canine teeth. That implied Zsasz's target had more people waiting for him at home.

Zsasz stowed the knife and slowed his pace, allowing the grocery-toting man to get ahead of him. He had no idea how long he'd have to follow the man until they reached his home, and Zsasz didn't want to give himself away. He wasn't often given the opportunity to free an entire family of zombies, and he wouldn't let himself get hasty and ruin it.

The man, oblivious to his tail, trudged down three blocks before arriving in front of an apartment building. Zsasz was a far cry from Frank Lloyd Wright, but judging by the building's architecture, Zsasz could only compare it to a Soviet-era apartment block.

Zsasz's prey entered the building and Zsasz slipped in after him. They went past the building's collection of mailboxes, and headed for the elevator. The man struggled to hit the "up" button and finally had the good sense to set a bag down and stop trying to use his elbow instead of his finger. Using the right tool for the job, the man was able to summon the elevator with ease.

Though the elevator apparently didn't feel like answering the call. Seconds after the man pushed the button, there was a horrific metallic grinding noise. Even if the elevator did show up after that cacophony, Zsasz had no intention of getting on, regardless of what his prey did.

"Son of a bitch!" the man shouted, and kicked the closed elevator doors. "They can't keep this piece of shit running for two days straight!"

Zsasz slunk back to the mailboxes while the man had his tantrum. Once he'd vented and picked up his bag, Zsasz emerged and followed the man to the stairs.

Being unburdened by groceries and having spent untold hours at Arkham doing exercises so he could kill even more efficiently, Zsasz was far more comfortable with the stairs than his prey. He was still breathing lightly and his pulse had hardly climbed above a resting rate when he followed his soon-to-be victim through the fourth-floor doorway and into a long, dim hallway.

The atmosphere of the hallway screamed murder. And neglect by the landlord. Many of the overhead lights were either dead or buzzing in a way that suggested electrical fires were inevitable. The carpet likewise was a ragged mess. And the paint job... Painting the walls with the zombie's blood would be _so_ much better.

The man stopped in front of a door halfway down the hall. He'd apparently left it open, as he turned the knob without first inserting a key. That confirmed that someone else was in the apartment, as nobody would leave his door unlocked in this neighborhood.

Before the door could swing shut, Zsasz had his foot in the jamb. He nudged the door open and stepped into the apartment.

It was like venturing into a decrepit, ghetto wardrobe and emerging into Narnia. Or the North Pole. Or somewhere very bright and magical.

Zsasz and literature similes really didn't get on very well.

As gray and sad as the rest of the building was, this apartment was a bastion of Christmas cheer. There were lights, garland, cut-outs of Santa and his reindeer crew, paper snowflakes, and enough other visual stimulation to send Zsasz into flashbacks.

With each passing year, it became more difficult for Zsasz to remember who he'd been before the knives and the zombies and the marks. Sometimes those memories felt more like an entire past life, not quite wiped away by the waters of the Lethe. But this was one of those few instances when Zsasz could clearly remember back decades, all the way to his childhood. He used to love Christmas. Loved it so much, in fact, that in the here and now, in the most crucial part of a hunt (excluding making the tallies, of course, should the hunt be successful), he paused and let the gingerbread wash over him.

"Hey, Uncle Nick, who's _that_?"

Zsasz blinked and his childhood memories evaporated. He looked past the decorations and finally beheld his prey.

There were eight of them crammed into the kitchen. Uncle Nick, the little boy who'd spoken, what Zsasz assumed to be the boy's twin sister, a teenage girl, a middle-aged couple, and another couple, this one in their late 60s.

An entire family.

Three generations of zombies.

This was the best Christmas gift he could ever hope to receive.

Uncle Nick, groceries still in hand, turned back towards the door. He faced Zsasz, and the killer saw more annoyance than fear in the man's face.

"I don't know," Nick said. "But this isn't his apartment, and he'd better leave."

Zsasz wasn't surprised that neither Nick nor anyone else in the family recognized him, bundled up as he was. His most distinguishing feature was tucked under layers of clothing, and without his scars, he could blend in among the zombies. Become invisible.

That wouldn't do here. He wanted these walking corpses to know him.

Zsasz started at the top, removing the knit cap and discarding it. He then traveled down to the scarf, and unwound it from his neck. It uncoiled like a dead snake and joined the hat on the floor.

"No, no, leave your stuff on and get out!" Nick shouted. "Alright, that's it."

Nick dropped his bags and stepped towards the intruder. Zsasz continued disrobing as though a very angry homeowner was not looking to punch him in the face. His hands worked the buttons on his overcoat, and he was nearly ready to shed the garment when Nick reached him.

It would have been as easy as breathing to stick a knife in Nick's chest. All of Zsasz's primal instincts—the ones he was usually more than happy to indulge to their gory fullest—demanded he do just that. Only, that would have ruined the surprise and taken the fun out of the reveal. So instead of spearing Nick, Zsasz gave him a shove. Nick stumbled backwards, tripped over his groceries, and fell flat on his ass.

Now that Nick had been floored (Zsasz wondered for the briefest of moments if the Joker would have liked his little pun), Zsasz continued where he left off. Discarding the single most lovely thing he'd worn in recent memory. Double-breasted, wool, black, the tiny slit that marked the coat's original owner's departure stitched so tight as to be invisible. It all fell to the floor the same as the purloined hat and scarf.

The sweater underneath the coat was nowhere near as perfect a fit. It had obviously been washed contrary to the dry clean only label, and the sleeves were shrunken and rode up almost to Zsasz's elbows. Most people would never have worn the garment again, but those dwarfish sleeves were just perfect for a revealing peek.

The teenage girl stood up, the look on her face suggesting a velociraptor had interrupted her Jello. Then she started screaming and pointing and ended up knocking her chair over and making so much of a spectacle of herself that everyone in her family stared at her and forgot, momentarily, about Zsasz.

Everyone except Nick, that was. He was the closest to Zsasz, and could most clearly make out the grouped scars that decorated the killer's arms.

"Dear Jesus," Nick murmured.

"No, I'm Victor, and I'll be your savior tonight."

The reason for the teenager's hysterics were now apparent to all the adults in the room. At first they, being farther down the table and less keen in the eyesight department, hadn't really seen the scars. Or had refused to acknowledge what they meant. Now with the intruder named, denial's power had been stolen.

"Get the kids and run!" Nick screamed.

The twins looked up in confusion as their older sister snatched one, and their father grabbed the other. Zsasz had no idea what the layout of Nick's apartment was, but he could almost guarantee those children were headed behind a locked door. Which wouldn't keep him out forever, but would delay him and possibly buy the zombies enough time for help to arrive.

That couldn't be allowed. Zsasz gave chase, bolting after the retreating family. He hurdled the dropped grocery bags, and prepared to do the same to Nick. Only Nick had no intention of letting him pass.

Zsasz found Nick clinging to his ankle with pit-bull tenacity. Even someone who filled as much of his infinite Arkham downtime with strength-training as Zsasz did found it absurdly difficult to attack with 180 pounds dangling from his leg. He had to lose his anchor.

Zsasz slid a knife from his sleeve. He could have pulled the knife from any of a dozen places—the madman had enough blades strapped to himself to service a professional kitchen—but that particular knife happened to be the most handy at that moment.

Knife in hand, Zsasz set about cutting free his ballast. The clutching zombie saw death approaching, and like so many others had in the past, decided to do everything in his power to hold it at bay as long as possible. The hands around Zsasz's ankle disappeared as Nick scrambled on his hands and knees for safety.

There was no way Zsasz was letting Nick get anywhere. He made a stab for Nick, intending to drive the knife deep into his back. Nick turned at the last possible second and managed to roll out of a mortal blow. That didn't mean he escaped unscathed. The knife skittered along a rib and dug a long furrow into Nick's side. Nick screamed and rolled onto his back, hands pressed to the injury.

"Look what resistance buys you. Pain," Zsasz said, standing over Nick. He flicked his knife, droplets of Nick's blood spattering onto the floor. Nick whimpered as Zsasz crouched down in front of him and flashed the knife at him.

Whatever spiel the psychopath was about to indulge in next was put on hold when something orange hit him in the face. While Zsasz pawed at the splattered missile, Nick crab-walked backwards as fast as he could, his eyes moon-wide and fixed on the maniac who'd just stabbed him.

Hmm, butter, brown sugar, marshmallows. Someone had just turned candied yams into a smokescreen. That was a new one on Zsasz. He'd had desperate zombies throw all sorts of things at him, but never this particular dinner side.

It really was delicious.

Nick reached the table and used a chair to leverage himself back on his feet. He found his mother, now armed with a turkey drumstick, instantly by his side. She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him, her fingers leaving greasy streaks on his shirt. Nick's feet moved automatically as he was returned to his childhood, once again being led around by his mother.

Desperate hands beckoned Nick and his mother. The rest of the family had sought refuse in his bedroom, and while the twins—Taylor and Tyler, what the almighty _fuck_ was his sister thinking naming them like that—were absent from the door frame, everyone else urged them on.

No more than ten feet from safety, Nick felt what he took as a punch to the middle of his back. He stumbled, and found his feet disobedient when he tried to straighten. Even running crouched proved impossible when his next step sent him toppling down. He felt his fingers slip from his mother's hand as he collapsed.

"_Nicholas_!" his mother shrieked. She turned, saw what had happened to her son, and screamed again.

The same knife Zsasz had used earlier now protruded like a mast from Nick's back. Blood welled up, creating red poppy blossoms on Nick's shirt, and when he tried to speak, more blood dribbled from his lips.

"Go. Love you. Go," Nick said, his mouth filling with blood.

There was no reasoning with mothers. Zsasz had learned that no matter what you said to them, mothers would never be convinced. They would do anything in their power—and let there be no mistake, when it came to fighting, mothers were just below Batman—to keep their children alive.

No matter how old their children were.

Armed only with dismembered animal parts, Nick's mother refused to leave her son. Even when Zsasz brandished a knife at her. All she did was tighten her grip on the drumstick.

The woman would no doubt have forced Zsasz to liberate her first if her daughter and son-in-law hadn't grabbed her and, literally kicking and screaming, dragged her into the bedroom. Zsasz made sure the pair wouldn't be returning for Nick. He hurled himself at the door that had just been slammed in his face hard enough to rattle the lintel.

"You're next, piggies!" Zsasz shouted at the door. There was, as expected, no reply. At least no reply aimed at him. Zsasz pressed his ear to the door, listening to the furtive, panicked motion behind the wood.

Of course the mother was still wailing, but underneath that, he could hear the teenager. She, no doubt, was on the phone to the police. Zsasz frowned. He hated cell phones. When he'd first started his mission, cell phones had been far less common. Now any possible witnesses could alert the cops and ruin his fun before he could realize his greatest creativity.

Knowing that time was limited, Zsasz decided not to waste any precious minutes going Jack Nicholson on the door. He turned to Nick. The man hadn't moved much, which wasn't surprising, given the knife in the back, but there was still life and plenty of terror in his eyes.

Leaving the blade where it was for now, Zsasz grabbed Nick and dragged him back into the kitchen. The man was worse than dead weight, as he managed to struggle and grasp feebly at everything from the rug to the leg of a chair. A subtle tweak of the knife was enough to loosen his grip each and every time, though.

Despite his soon-to-be-mark's best efforts, Zsasz soon had Nick slumped against the kitchen table. While Nick's breath whistled wetly at his feet, Zsasz took in the Christmas dinner furnishings. Every inch of the table was laden with either food or plates awaiting said food. There was a turkey, a hunk of ham, a bowl of brussel sprouts (with bacon, so none of them for the veggie), mashed potatoes, corn, a gravy boat that had been knocked over, the pan of yams with a scoop missing, a plate of biscuits, and two pies.

As far as last suppers went, this was a good one.

It was now that Zsasz slid the knife from Nick's back. He then hoisted Nick into the chair at the head of the table. Nick had no strength for sitting up straight, and required some readjusting to keep from either slipping onto the floor or collapsing face first onto the empty plate before him.

Zsasz was finally satisfied with the pose he'd gotten from Nick. With that accomplished, Zsasz moved on to the next stage of his tableau.

The knife that had dealt the lung-piercing blow to Nick was gently placed in his limp palm. A fork was laid in the other hand.

"What do you eat?"

Nick, even if he could understand why his murderer was asking that, wouldn't have had the strength to answer anyway.

Getting no answer from the quickly dying man, Zsasz shrugged and decided to fill the plate with a little of everything. He sliced a little ham and turkey and doused them with gravy. Same with the potatoes. Hmm, brussel sprouts, not everyone liked those. But bacon, everyone liked that. Zsasz decided to roll two of the little cabbages onto Nick's plate.

Nick's breathing began to grow slow and ragged as Zsasz crowded slices of pumpkin and pecan pie onto the plate. As the butcher slid the overloaded plate in front of Nick, the man gave a single convulsive cough and a fine spray of blood misted the meal in front of him. After that, there was nothing else from Nick.

What a shame. He'd died before getting any pie.

Zsasz slid into the chair nearest to Nick and usurped the plate. He was not a fan of brussel sprouts personally, but everything else looked delicious.

Before he prepared his Christmas dinner, though, there was a final matter to take care of. Zsasz didn't much care if he had to abandon his meal because the police showed up to ruin his fun, but he did care if he was forced to hurriedly make his mark in some dark alley for the same reason. The mark took precedence to everything, including that other turkey leg.

Pulling yet another knife from his collection, Zsasz considered where to make this tally. He'd just finished a set of five, so he was unbound by that constraint. He decided, in honor of the turkey drumstick wielded by Nick's mother, to mark his own leg. He rolled up his pants and pressed the knife into the skin just below his knee. There was the old, familiar burn, and Zsasz closed his eyes in ecstasy.

He'd given Nick the best Christmas present possible: total and eternal freedom. Though the gift Nick had given him in return, tally 116, wasn't bad, either.

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><p>The End.<p>

Thanks for reading, and kindly excuse me while I go climb out of Zsasz's head and into the nearest shower.

Oh, ahem, and Merry Christmas.


End file.
